


In Nomine

by tinsnip



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A Z Fell - Freeform, Anthony J Crowley - Freeform, Gen, I mean really it was just a matter of time, and the occasional thoughtlessness thereof, the naming of angels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 18:10:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19706743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip
Summary: The first time he’d given in to the impulse to just make up a name, he’d felt a bit odd about it. But everything had gone so smoothly. He’d been able to just go in and eat and then leave and it hadn’t mattered at all, the human hadn’t really wanted to know his name, they’d just wanted something to peg him by while he was there.And so: Fell. Ezra Fell. Ms Azee Phale. Mme A Zinnia File. A Z Fell, bookseller.That last one has stuck around the longest, now. He’s grown rather attached to it.A... A... what begins with A?Aziraphale makes dinner reservations for himself and Crowley, and is a bit thoughtless. Silly business.





	In Nomine

“Yes, hello. I’d like to make a reservation for seven o’clock, please.”

“Yes, sir. Party of...?”

“Two, please.”

“Yes, sir. Name of?”

“Fell.”

“First name, sir?”

“Ah—”

It’s not that no one ever asks. People ask all the time. A title usually does the trick. Sometimes he goes by Mr, sometimes Mrs, once upon a time he’d flirted with Mademoiselle, because titles are great fun: they hide secrets, they have _connotations._ But if one is asked _specifically_ for a first name, it’s rude to use a title. Some kinds of rudeness he’s perfectly fine with. Being rude is not sinful. But it’s also usually, he feels, not necessary.

Aziraphale is a perfectly lovely name for an angel, and a completely awful name for a human. For starters, no one can ever spell it (not that there really is any correct way to spell it in any human language, except perhaps Hebrew, and even then one has to squint). Once they’ve failed to spell it, it’s a certain thing that any attempt at pronunciation will be execrable. He dislikes unnecessary embarrassment, both of the human who is tasked with uttering his name and of himself, and spending five minutes arguing back and forth extremely politely about how to pronounce his own name is not something that brings him joy.

Angels don’t lie. He’s quite sure about that. He’d come into existence with a very specific task set, and none of those tasks had been _distort reality._ Of course, none of those tasks had been _style one’s hair_ or _wear proper shoes_ or even _be polite,_ either.

The first time he’d given in to the impulse to just make up a name, he’d felt a bit odd about it. But everything had gone so _smoothly_. He’d been able to just go in and eat and then leave and it hadn’t mattered at all, the human hadn’t really wanted to know his _name,_ they’d just wanted something to peg him by while he was there.

And so: Fell. Ezra Fell. Ms Azee Phale. Mme A Zinnia File. A Z Fell, bookseller.

That last one has stuck around the longest, now. He’s grown rather attached to it.

A... A... what begins with A?

“Anthony.”

(“Wha?” says Crowley, half looking around from where he’s idly zapping motes of dust out of a sunbeam.)

“Very good, sir. We’ll see you tonight.”

“Good evening, Mr Fell,” says the hostess brightly, “right this way,” and leads the two of them to a cozy corner table. Crowley traipses along after him, hinting darkly by his posture and motion that he just might upset someone’s water glass; all the diners draw in their arms and legs protectively, frowning.

Aziraphale sits. Crowley sits. They relax.

When dinner is served, it’s sumptuous. There are sauces. There are pastries. There are tidbits and morsels and confections, and each is paired with wine. Aziraphale is, as the saying goes, in heaven. Crowley seems happy enough too.

At last Aziraphale leans back, hands folded over a full and happy belly, and sighs in delight. The waitress hovers over him, smiling.

“Was everything to your liking, sir?”

“Oh, yes,” says Aziraphale, and smiles at her; she glows. “Please do give my compliments to the chef.”

“Oh, sir, he’ll be along shortly.”

Crowley’s brows rise. Aziraphale blinks. “He will?”

“He likes to round the tables about this time of night - see how everyone’s getting on, you know. The personal touch!”

“How very kind of him,” says Aziraphale, and Crowley rolls his eyes behind his glasses.

“Here he is now. I’ll just clear your plates.”

The man himself arrives, smiling widely. “Gentlemen,” he says, “a pleasant evening to you both. I do hope you’ve enjoyed your meal?”

“Scrumptious,” chirps Aziraphale. Crowley nods affably. “And I plan to be back as soon as possible.”

“Oh, I am charmed,” says the chef, and this actually appears to be the case. Aziraphale is always bemused and delighted when he meets an actual people person: how they do it, he’ll never understand. “But let me meet you properly in this case: my name is Giovanni, and you are?”

Oh. First names.

Oh, dear.

“Anthony,” says Aziraphale, and Crowley chokes on his water. “Anthony Fell.”

“Such a pleasure, Anthony. And your friend?”

Crowley opens his mouth. Aziraphale cuts him off: “Tony Crowley.”

Crowley’s eyebrows climb his scalp.

“Oh! You two are a matched pair!” The chef is amused.

“Ah ha, quite, you know, it’s a bit of a running joke wherever we go,” says Aziraphale, suddenly unable to shut off his mouth, “you know, ‘Anthony’, ‘yes?’, always the wrong one, really quite amusing, ah ha!”

“Ah ha,” says Crowley.

“I can imagine,” says the chef. “Well, it is excellent to meet you both. I look forward to seeing you here again. I know I certainly will have no excuse to forget your names, ah?”

Aziraphale smiles weakly at him. Whatever Crowley’s doing, it doesn’t show up on his face.

The chef bows himself away, and Aziraphale shrivels in his chair.

“Tony. Toooony. Tony Crowley,” says Crowley meditatively. “Hi there, I’m Tony Crowley. Pleased to meet you, Tony’s the name, tempting’s the game. Frosties: they’re grrreat.”

“I couldn’t _help_ it,” says Aziraphale, half-exasperated, half-wailing, “I’d already told them my name was Anthony, what was I to do?”

“Lying never occurred to you? Lying more, I mean? Since you’d already started off so well.”

“Oh, _dear,”_ says Aziraphale, now completely flummoxed. “I really don’t know how to make this up to you.”

Crowley looks at him for a moment, and then smiles a little smile.

“Well. For starters, you’re going to choose a different name.”

“I... I am?”

“Yep. Andrew’s nice, all apostolic. Or Abraham, gets you in the right books.”

Aziraphale blinks. “Hammy for short?”

“Not Abraham. Right. Abaddon? No. Taken. Doesn’t suit you anyway. Hmm. Abel?”

“Oh, really.”

“Right. Gotta try. Adeodatus?”

“‘Given by God’? A bit high and mighty.”

“You’re an _angel._ You _are_ high and mighty.”

“Yes, but one does one’s best not to put on airs,” says Aziraphale, relaxing as he realizes his sin is not, in fact, unforgivable, “and, by the way, Anthony means ‘priceless’.”

“Does it!” Crowley looks pleased.

“Or ‘of inestimable worth’, which I’m quite certain you already knew.”

“Nah,” says Crowley, “just liked the sound, but can’t say I mind it. Tony, on the other hand...”

Aziraphale looks at him sideways. “I _am_ sorry.”

Crowley brushes the words away. “Think nothing of it. As long as you realize that we are never coming back here.”

“Oh, but I—”

_“Never.”_

Well, then. There are always other places to eat. Aziraphale feels he can be magnanimous. “All right. That’s fair.”

“Good,” says Crowley, nodding.

Aziraphale looks at the table, once a site of such beauty, now so barren, and he doesn’t pout. “But, as we’re here now...”

Crowley looks at him with what he surmises is exasperation. “Yes, angel, you can have dessert.”

“And we can talk about A names.”

“Why don’t you just go with Angelo?”

_“Angelo?”_


End file.
